touch the world

I catch myself before I resign to the disgraceful corners of my mind
where words mean very little and emotions are ambiguous.
I forget the touch of another's skin, and I rightfully blame myself.
I watch your lips smack, but I barely hear a sound.
My goodest nature browns and sways to the ground
as I wonder if life is more depraved than I thought,
and the same way I use and reject those I choose, the same goes for rhymes around the words I include.
In the pages I've hidden, my memoir just needs assembling.
Better to leave it messy so it better reflects me.
It only means something if I find myself trembling.
To share it, it better, god damn it better be better than the last time I tried.

The last time I cried I looked my step-father in the eyes.
I feel almost nothing when I look into mine.

What is this other than ramblings of a man seeking and pleading for attention?
After so long, I still can't gauge my intentions.
The warning bells in my mind, I think are deafening,
so I can no longer hear when I'm told the right thing.
Until the moment I touch the world, I feel almost nothing,
but it doesn't feel right, the texture is missing.

Fractured like my heart, my tongue, and my mind.

Everywhere I look, broken people stay broken.
They gave up asking for help, they were all born unchosen.
Forgotten, rotting, drying up in the sun.
The arrogance I have to look down on them.
The self-pity I have to align myself with them.
The dreams that I have are really an absurd story
of a hero in a world that doesn't understand his glory,
but when I touch the world, it does understand,
and it ridicules me using my other hand.
When I touch rays of light, they aren't received,
and I'm reminded that I've once again been deceived.
After I touch the world, it fades with my dreams.
All I wanted was friends to believe what I see.